


No Matter What We Get Out of This (I Know We'll Never Forget)

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Men of Letters Bunker, Supernatural Summergen Fic Exchange 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean’s never done ‘idle’ and on the few occasions he’s had no choice, he’s been an absolute asshole to live with.</i>
</p><p>

Like now.

 Dean is injured and Sam’s ready for killing him until he discovers the secret to re-connecting with his brother: Guitar Hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter What We Get Out of This (I Know We'll Never Forget)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fabulous beta, reapertownusa, despite being ridiculously busy herself. Title taken from Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water.
> 
> Fic written for this prompt: _Sam and Dean are playing Guitar Hero. And it's just not fair the Sam's kicking Dean's ass. The situation just made me smile every time I thought of them playing and teasing each other. I imagined this to be somewhere along the later seasons in the bunker, giving the boys some well-deserved down time, but any season can work._
> 
>  **Warnings** : Bad language.

It would have been funny had the outcome not been so disastrous. Because, let’s face it – besting an honest-to-God monster without a single scratch and then falling down the stairs at home later _would_ seem pretty funny if it hadn’t resulted in a concussion, three cracked ribs, a broken foot and a dislocated ankle.

With only three hours post-hospital discharge, Sam knows better than to tell Dean he’ll probably laugh about this one day because his brother may be incapacitated but his ability to conceal weapons about his person is _legendary_ and Sam doesn’t have a death wish. 

Instead Sam puts up with an endless diatribe from his brother about how much this sucks, and what the fuck is he going to do for six weeks while he can’t walk, and oh, did he mention how much this sucks? Admittedly it _is_ a crappy situation to have no working legs but Sam’s attempt to put a positive spin on the two of them finally getting some down-time at the bunker has gone down like the proverbial lead balloon. Dean’s _never_ done ‘idle’ and on the few occasions he’s had no choice, he’s been an absolute _asshole_ to live with. 

Like now. 

“Sam! Sammy? Where the hell _are_ you?” 

In the kitchen Sam breathes out slowly through his nose and mentally counts to ten, then counts to twenty because ten really isn’t cutting it anymore. He puts down the knife and wipes his hands on his jeans. 

“What do you need, Dean?” he says eventually as he trudges through the bunker into his room. He wonders for the millionth time what possessed him to install Dean in his room while he recuperates, then remembers how giving Dean the use of his TV and DVD player affords him _occasional_ moments of peace. 

“Are we ever gonna eat? I’m starving and I can’t take any more pain meds on an empty stomach,” Dean grumbles. 

Sam finds himself glad he left the knife in the kitchen. “I was _making_ lunch when you shouted to me.” 

Dean makes a face as he waves his hand dismissively. 

“Yeah well, I’m hungry. What you making?” 

“Cheese burgers. That okay?” 

“Guess it’ll have to be.” 

Sam turns to leave, his lips pressed together to prevent the escape of any number of things he’d _like_ to say but would probably regret later. 

“Sammy?” 

“Yes, Dean?” 

“Are there fries too?” 

“Yes.” 

“Sam?” 

“What?” 

“Don’t forget the mayo.” 

“I won’t.” 

He’s barely out of the door when: 

“Oh, and Sam?” 

“ _What_ , Dean?” 

“I had to _go_ before,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I shouted but I dunno, probably all that hair you got covering your ears meant you couldn’t hear me or something, so I had to do it in _that_.” 

Sam follows Dean’s gesture to the beer bottle on the floor, the previously-empty receptacle now magically refilled. 

“Can you get rid of it? The stink of piss is putting me off the movie and I almost drank it by accident.” 

When Sam is safely back in the kitchen he realises that he needs to do something or their downtime is going to end in tears or bloodshed. Probably both. When a possible solution eventually comes to him, he can’t get out of there fast enough. He leaves Dean with his curiosity and a supply of bottles, just in case his brother’s bladder can’t hold out until he returns. 

OoOoO

“You bought _what?_ ” Dean says, his features consumed by his frown. “Dude, I’m not _twelve.”_

Sam heroically resists the urge to tell Dean he’s acting like he is. “It’s Guitar Hero, man. Last time I looked, you were a fan of rock music.” 

“And your point is?” 

“Look, it’s a good game, okay? Just give it a chance. One of the guys had it at Stanford and it looked really good.” 

“ _Looked_ good? So you’ve never actually played it then?” 

“No, but... look, it’s not like you’ve anything better you could be doing.” 

Dean snorts but he doesn’t voice any further objections as Sam starts to hook up the PS3 he also just bought them. He starts the game and tunes the TV, the words ‘Guitar Hero’ filling the screen when it hits the right channel. 

“You ready to play?” Sam says with a grin as he holds out one of the two guitar controllers. Dean rolls his eyes and wordlessly accepts it. 

Sam selects a two player game. “You wanna pick a song?” 

Dean studies the menu for a heartbeat. “Do I wanna pick a -? Are you _kidding_ me? This is a one-horse race, Sam - Deep Purple all the way.” 

As the first bars of _Smoke on the Water_ fire up, Dean fingers the buttons experimentally. He starts, misses a few notes, then finds his feet with a ‘ha’ of triumph. As the song begins to sound the way it should, Sam glances over – Dean’s look of bored indifference has been replaced by a frown of concentration and Sam laughs to himself. _Got you_ , he thinks. 

They get through the first song without being booed off stage. When their respective scores are displayed, Dean grins. 

“Sixty seven percent of notes hit. Not bad for a beginner, huh, Sammy?” 

“Not bad,” Sam agrees. “You wanna carry on?” 

“May as well,” Dean says, trying to act like he’s not bothered either way and fooling no one. “Like you said, it’s not like I’ve anything better to be doing.” 

Dean winces as he resettles his guitar and Sam is reminded that they’re experiencing this rare free time because his brother is injured. He feels bad for his earlier uncharitable thoughts and certain that, now that Dean has this video game as an outlet, he might be a little easier to deal with. 

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Sam’s not sure whether it’s cabin fever or seriously strong painkillers or _both_ , but two days in, Dean’s now convinced he’s channelling the spirits of Jimi Hendrix, Joe Satriani and Slash (even though Sam has repeatedly pointed out that the last two aren’t dead). To be fair, Dean’s actually pretty good; he’s now playing on ‘Hard’ and is getting through most songs with upwards of ninety percent of notes hit, which of course makes him a Guitar Hero _legend_ , in his own mind anyway. 

The main problem is he talks about it _a lot_.

The other problem is, no matter how much Dean practises and no matter how hard he concentrates, Sam is still better. 

“You sure you’ve never played this before?” Dean rages for the millionth time after Sam has calmly but proficiently strummed his way through Blue Oyster Cult’s _Godzilla_ , leaving Dean trailing in his wake, points-wise. 

“Dean, I swear to you, man, I’ve _never_ played it before until two days ago.” 

Dean seems to weigh this up as if he’s casting around for a reason to explain this gross injustice. 

“Maybe it’s the songs,” he says eventually, “I mean, Franz Ferdinand ain’t exactly classic rock, you know?” 

“Hmmm,” Sam replies noncommittally, avoiding pointing out the many songs that _do_ fit his brother’s definition of classic rock in the hope that Dean will shut the fuck up. Then, because his brain hates him, adds: “Maybe we should try the sequel.” 

Dean, who’s trying to itch under the plaster cast on his foot without pulling on his cracked ribs stops and looks at him likes he’s grown a second head. 

“Wait... what? You mean there’s another game?” 

Sam laughs. “Dean, this game was released in 2005. The _sequel’s_ sequel’s got a sequel by now.” 

He’s not sure if this has even registered with Dean who is staring at him like his second head is now wearing a flashing pink sombrero. 

“Dean?” 

“Sam. Why are you even still here? Those games ain’t gonna buy themselves.” 

Two hours later, Sam finds himself on-line in their nearest Gamestop, trying to pull out his wallet whilst keeping hold of the four further Guitar Hero offerings he’s managed to find. His cell phone beeps and he manages to juggle everything to read the text message he’s just received. 

_Well?_

Only Dean has the ability to irritate the crap out of him with a single word. He’s stuck behind a harassed-looking dad trying to mediate between his two young sons who are arguing over which game they’re getting so he takes the opportunity to text a reply. 

_Well what?_

He hits ‘send’ and smiles, knowing the apoplexy Dean will be having as he reads his non-answer. His phone beeps again almost instantly. 

_Bitch_

The guy with the kids has been served so he quickly texts back _Jerk_ and then moves up to the counter to pay for his purchases. 

OoOoO

Sam arrives back at the bunker to find his brother pale-faced and sweating as Dean has attempted to visit the bathroom in his absence. Dean’s been given a set of crutches, but it’s clear the ankle he’d dislocated isn’t ready for bearing his weight just yet and he’s now stranded in the corridor, unable to take another step forward, but equally unable to step back. 

“Hey, what happened to going in beer bottles?” Sam asks as he puts down his purchases and hurries to help his brother. 

“I know,” Dean replies, through gritted teeth. “But the only bottles I had were full and I damn well wasn’t about to waste perfectly good beer.” Sam rolls his eyes at this, prompting Dean to add: “Yeah, can the lecture, Sammy. Trust me; this won’t be making my scrapbook of good ideas.” 

In a measure of how much pain his brother is in, Dean only utters a half-hearted _‘Dude, what the hell?’_ when Sam eventually gives up trying to act like a crutch and just scoops Dean into his arms and carries him through to the bathroom. He holds Dean up while he pees, then picks him up again, mindful of Dean’s healing ribs. Dean, as usual, shows his gratitude by being a pain in the ass. 

“You know, Sammy, if you carry me over the threshold then it practically makes us married.” 

“Shut up, Dean.” 

“Hey, there are _plenty_ who’d kill to be married to me.” 

“Hmm... I can see how being married to you would put a person in the mood for killing.” 

“Hilarious,” Dean replies as he’s lowered back onto the bed. “Pick on the crippled guy, why don’t you?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh well, guess you’re too crippled for the new games I just bought you, huh?” 

“On second thought, maybe crippled is overstating things _slightly_.”

Dean’s expression has brightened at the news that Sam has managed to find the games he wanted, but it’s clear he’s still in some pain. Sam helps him get comfortable, propping him up with pillows while Dean braces himself to prevent any pressure on his ribs. 

“D’you want some more painkillers?” Sam asks once Dean is settled. 

“Is Crowley a douchebag in an overcoat?” 

Sam fetches him some of his meds and a glass of water, which Dean readily accepts. 

“You want some lunch?” Sam asks as his brother closes his eyes for a moment. 

“Later,” Dean replies, looking up at him suddenly with a grin, as he cracks his knuckles noisily. “We can eat _after_ I’ve kicked your ass.” 

OoOoO

Lunch is eaten in deathly silence. 

Every few minutes Sam can feel the weight of Dean’s glare, which he avoids by keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his sandwich. Dean’s initial glee at the setlist on Guitar Hero II - _Alice Cooper! Lynyrd Skynyrd! Kansas, Sammy, Kansas!_ – had quickly turned sour as, song after song, Sam had outplayed him once again. They’d tried the other games, with the same results. 

Dean is simmering with indignation and Sam’s not sure what he can say to improve things so he leaves his brother alone for a while. He does jobs around the bunker, checking on Dean periodically who replies in grunts and monosyllables as he hunches over the laptop. 

Sam’s growing concern is that Dean is trying to find them a hunt, which is frankly _ridiculous_ given that he can’t walk, but typical of Dean when he’s frustrated and wants them to get back to what he considers ‘normal’ life. 

Sam’s starting to wonder if he needs to ban Dean from the internet when Dean shouts to him, his voice sounding far less pissed off than it did a couple of hours ago. _Crap_ , Sam thinks as he heads for his room, steeling himself for a confrontation. 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Dean says decisively before Sam can utter a word, “and I think I’ve worked out what the problem is. It’s the guitar.” 

“Come again?” Sam replies, utterly perplexed. 

“The guitar,” Dean says impatiently. “It’s the wrong shape. Everyone knows that the Flying V is the only way to rock properly.” 

Sam bites down on a laugh because Dean is deadly serious and laughing at Dean when he isn’t joking is _definitely_ hazardous to a person’s health. 

“Kirk Hammett, Marc Bolan,” Dean enumerates, counting them off on his fingers. “Dave Davies.” 

“Who?” 

Dean looks aghast. “From The Kinks, you _heathen_.”

“The Kinks. Right, sorry.” 

“And I’ve looked,” Dean continues, evidently not waiting to see if Sam is prepared to play fast and loose with his life, “And you can actually _get_ a Flying V controller.” 

“Oh,” Sam says, scratching his nose in a vain attempt to hide the smirk that’s twitching at his lips. “You know Amazon doesn’t deliver to the bunker.” 

“Funny,” Dean deadpans. “So you won’t mind going to Gamestop for me where I’ve got one reserved, waiting to be picked up by my smart-assed little brother.” 

The hour’s drive back to the store gives Sam time to convince himself that Dean’s acting like such a jerk because he’s bored but even miles and minutes don’t help lessen the urge to kill him. Instead he entertains himself with the thought of potential pranks, imagining Dean’s reaction and mentally debating with himself whether to carry them out or not. 

When he arrives at the store he heads up to the counter and, just his luck, gets served by the same guy as last time. 

“Wow, you must really like Guitar Hero,” the sales clerk says as he retrieves Dean’s guitar from under the counter. He’s grinning in a way that makes Sam want to casually reveal the gun he has upon his person but instead he simply nods and smiles. He hands over the cash and walks out of the store, feeling awkward and conspicuous carrying a large plastic guitar. It’s a feeling not helped by the group of teenagers who snigger as he passes them. 

“Hey, dude,” one of their number yells. “Do you take requests?” 

“Yeah, just one,” Sam replies, as he extends his middle finger. He ignores the tutting from an elderly couple nearby and makes for the parking lot, thinking Dean _definitely_ owes him one after this. 

OoOoO

“You know, Sammy,” Dean says gloomily, after another marathon session in which Sam has once again proven that he is the superior brother when it comes to console-based music rhythm games, Flying V or no Flying V. 

“I think you were just born lucky.” 

Sam almost chokes on his dinner. “I was _Lucifer’s_ chosen vessel, Dean. How exactly does that make me lucky?” 

Dean seems to weigh this up for a second. 

“Fair point,” he concedes, but he doesn’t seem any less annoyed. 

With the absence of anything else to say, they lapse back into slightly awkward silence. Sam finds himself wondering how the hell this innocent suggestion to help his injured brother pass the time has resulted in a _worse_ atmosphere than before and figures he’ll just throw the next few songs - _anything_ for a quiet life. 

“Sam? I hope you’re not thinking of letting me win?” Dean asks him suddenly, _the perceptive bastard._

Sam gives him a look he hopes is innocent indignation. “You think I’d do that?” 

“For a quiet life? Yeah, I reckon you would.” 

Seeing Dean’s finished his dinner, Sam stands and goes to collect his brother’s plate. Dean’s looking at him pointedly so he meets his brother’s stare with a defiant one of his own. 

“Well you’re wrong,” he says, then, once he’s out of throwing range: “It’s not my problem that you suck.” 

He manages to persuade Dean to watch some TV after dinner and they settle down to continue their _Breaking Bad_ marathon. It’s that or _The Walking Dead_ but Sam vetoes the latter, knowing Dean would spend the entire time pointing out what the survivors were doing wrong and regaling Sam with his ‘Top Ten’ list of things he would want with him in the event of (another) zombie apocalypse. 

The hours pass and Sam finds he’s actually enjoying himself. Although Dean makes a lousy patient, it’s given them time to reconnect and just be two brothers rather than comrades-in-arms for once. For a moment he allows himself to indulge in the fantasy that they have normal lives and he wonders if Dean ever does the same. 

Inevitably Dean suggests firing up the PS3 later on and Sam’s quite happy to indulge him by this point. He’s got a good beer buzz going, which he’ll later blame for his suggestion that they have a few little wagers, to make things more interesting. Dean grins and nods. 

“Yeah?” he says, “what did you have in mind?” 

They start with easy stuff, with laundry runs and food shopping as the penalties for losing. Dean wins the ‘person with the longest note streak’, where Sam wins the wager for ‘who can go the longest from the start of the song without missing a note’ and they’re talking and laughing and playfully taunting each other whenever one of them fucks up. 

They’re running out of things to bet - Sam’s got to catalogue an entire room’s worth of spell ingredients while Dean’s on toilet duties for two months once he’s on his feet - when Dean says, “How about, the winner gets to ask the loser any question they want and it’s gotta be answered truthfully.” 

Sam stares at the TV screen. The next song is Iron Maiden’s _The Trooper_ and even though he doesn’t know how it goes, he’s pretty sure he can take Dean on this one, whatever the criteria for their wager. Increasing his confidence is the fact that Dean’s topped his prescription meds up with a couple of beers, so realistically it should be like shooting a (lame) fish in a barrel. 

“You’re on,” he says, readying his controller. 

Very quickly he realises it’s the kind of song that, after only thirty seconds or so of banging the strum bar, his hand starts to feel like it’s about to drop off. With Dean’s honours degree from the University of Mullet Rock however, his brother is laughing like a loon because he knows Sam’s got another four minutes of this. 

He loses. 

Dean has this thoughtful expression that tells Sam his brother is not going to waste his prize and his heart sinks. Just when he thinks Dean is going to save his question for when he can really come up with something good, he’s hit with it. 

“Okay, I’ve got one.” 

“Fine. What is it?” 

“Tell me what happened with Cindy Conway.” 

Sam looks up, startled. Of all the things he was expecting Dean to ask, this didn’t even make the top twenty. Dean’s watching him expectantly as he reluctantly fumbles through the long-buried memories. 

“Dean...” he starts to say, even though he knows any protest is futile because a deal’s a deal, after all. 

“Come on, Sammy. Don’t hold out on me now.” 

Sam sighs. Dean’s always wanted to know what happened the night of his junior prom, but it’s been so many years since it was ever last mentioned that he figured he was finally off the hook. And despite the passage of time, and the myriad experiences – good and bad – he’s had since then, he can still feel the burn of embarrassment for his sixteen year-old self on that important night. 

With their dad gone on a hunt, Dean had been the one to assume the parental role when Sam had unexpectedly been asked to the prom by arguably one of the most popular girls in his grade. For a teenage boy, Cindy Conway had a face and body that almost certainly inspired a thousand wet dreams, Sam’s included. They’d been in town almost two months while John worked a job and where as Sam knew who Cindy was from the moment he started at Jefferson Heights, he never for a second thought she might know _him_.

He was wrong though, and Cindy _had_ noticed the quiet new guy and clearly liked what she saw. When he’d told Dean, his brother had grinned, made some reference he didn’t get to it being like a John Hughes movie, and insisted he give him a few pointers before the big occasion. 

On the night of the prom, Dean had sent him out the door in his smartest attire once he’d been given a big brother pep talk. Dean had also been waiting up when he’d arrived home – several hours earlier than expected. Sam had declined to talk about why that was and his lips had remained sealed ever since. They’d left town a week later, much to Sam’s relief. 

“Sam?” Dean pulls him from his memories and back into the present. “You gonna spill or not?” 

Sam closes his eyes to avoid the look of eagerness on his brother’s face. 

“I’m telling you, okay? I went over to her house to pick her up. She looked _amazing_. We went to the prom and then one of her friends was having a house party afterwards so went to that.” 

“Lemme guess,” Dean says when he pauses. “She was giving you all the right signals but then wouldn’t give you the keys to the kingdom, huh?” 

Sam huffs a humourless laugh and shakes his head; trust Dean to see it that way. “Actually it was the other way round.” 

“ _What?_ You’re kidding, right?” 

“No. _She_ wanted to, but, well, I didn’t.” 

He’s incensed by the look Dean’s giving him, knowing it’s _exactly_ the same look he’d have been getting all those years ago if he’d told Dean the truth when he’d arrived back at the motel. 

“I know it’s probably something you can’t get your head around, Dean but I knew we’d be moving on. I’d have felt like a complete jerk if I’d slept with her and then just disappeared.” 

“Like I would, you mean?” Dean says quietly, looking away, and Sam immediately thinks _‘shit’_ because that’s exactly what it looks like he’s saying. 

“Dean...” 

“I get it, Sammy.” 

Sam’s weighing up an apology when Dean hits a button and brings up a fresh list of songs. He clearly just wants to move on so Sam figures they’ll just carry on playing and not make any more wagers. 

“Okay,” Dean says decisively. “Next song is Skynyrd’s _Free Bird_. Same terms as last time?” 

Sam beats Dean’s best note streak by four. No one’s more surprised than himself, given that the song passed in a blur while he pondered what he’d want to ask Dean if he won. 

Before he can ask, Dean requests a bathroom break. They’ve perfected a half hop/hobble for when Dean needs to get around but it still takes the best part of almost ten minutes before they’re back in front of the TV, fresh beers in hand. 

“Okay, Sammy. Hit me with it,” Dean says. “Because I can see the cogs turning in that big ol’ brain of yours.” 

Sam ignores the tease. “Tell me the first time Dad told you he was proud of you.” 

Dean makes a face, like it’s a stupid question. 

“I dunno,” Dean says after a moment. “Probably the first time I killed something, or recited a spell correctly or something.” 

Sam shakes his head, irritated by his brother’s dismissive response. “No, Dean. I mean _really_ proud of you. Like looking you in the eye and saying it and _meaning_ it. You know what I’m talking about.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean replies gruffly, “But I honestly can’t remember. Ask me something else.” 

Dean is wearing a look that Sam recognises well: like he’s about to call time on this whole conversation if Sam doesn’t come up with something more acceptable to him and _fast_. He wonders if Dean genuinely doesn’t remember or if there’s more to it than that, but he can’t give it too much thought whilst he’s trying to come up with an alternative question. 

“Okay,” Sam says, and there’s a pause – a moment in time where he wonders if this is such a good idea – before he pushes on, because when the hell else do they really get to talk like this and Dean can’t bail on two questions in a row. “I want you to tell me the truth though, Dean.” 

“Alright, alright,” Dean replies, impatient for Sam to get on with it. 

“Okay. Remember when we were in Heaven?” Sam says – and hasn’t _that_ got to be one of the weirdest sentences he’s ever uttered? – “In Flagstaff when I ran away as a kid? You said ‘there were consequences’. What were they, Dean. What did Dad do?” 

He’s watching Dean like a hawk so he’s not about to miss the eye roll his brother gives. 

“Seriously? _That’s_ what you wanna know?” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

Dean sighs and shakes his head. “Shit, Sammy. That was a _lifetime_ ago...” 

“So was Cindy Conway.” 

This appears to influence whatever Dean was about to say next and he sighs again, more resigned this time. 

“Fine. Dad was royally pissed,” Dean begins, making eye contact then looks away as he scratches a nail along the edge of his plaster cast. “After the initial panic that something had taken you, we searched the room and realised some of your stuff was missing too.” 

Dean pauses and for a split-second Sam almost tells him to stop. Dean’s clearly uncomfortable reliving these memories and the fact that _he_ was the reason for all that worry and the resulting consequences is a regret he’ll always carry with him. 

“Dad was... well, I’ve never seen him like that, before or since,” Dean says, “I mean, you know he had a temper, but on hunts he was usually so measured and calm, every move planned, you know? Looking for you, it was like he couldn’t think straight. Anyway, he told me to go look somewhere, which I’d already done, _twice_ probably. When I told him I maybe needed to look somewhere else, he just lost it.” 

Dean’s humourless laugh causes Sam’s stomach to lurch. 

“He lost it and he took it out on me with his fists. It was my fault, and he made sure I knew it.” 

“Didn’t you fight back?” Sam asks, horrified. He’s always had the suspicion something like this happened, ever since he’d seen Dean’s face in Heaven’s recreation of Flagstaff. 

“You don’t fight back if you deserve it, Sam.” 

And this is somehow worse - that Dean, his amazing, selfless big brother, can actually believe this crap. 

“Dean...” 

“Sam, it’s okay. Like I said, it was a lifetime ago.” 

“I know, but I’m so so sorry, man. I never meant for that to happen.” 

“Dude, you were _twelve_.”

Even though Dean is saying it’s okay he still feels like shit. When he looks at Dean though, his brother is smiling to himself. 

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“Your other question about the first time Dad said he was proud of me?” Dean says, “I guess I may as well tell you now.” 

“I thought you didn’t remember?” 

“Yeah, so I lied okay? It was in Flagstaff too.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

Dean puts his beer bottle to his lips and he’s still smiling, although it fades a little at Sam’s stormy expression. Sam can’t help looking at him like that though because _what the fuck, how could their dad do that?_

“Dad apologised for what happened,” Dean says firmly. “He _was_ sorry, Sam and after that he stayed true to his word that he’d never lay another finger on me - on _either_ of us again. But it wasn’t just the fact that he apologised. He told me when he thought about what you did: saving your money, planning where you’d go, what you’d live off, he said he realised that you were able to do all that because you were strong and independent and resourceful and all that was down to me. 

“He said that he knew he should have been there for us more, and he was sorry for that too, but he could see that I’d raised you right and every strength, every good quality you had, was because of me. _That’s_ when he said he was proud of me.” 

For a moment Sam doesn’t know what to say. He’s appalled by Dean’s confirmation that their father had taken the price of his break for freedom out on his big brother, but in a weird way, he can see how Dean doesn’t think it all bad because it led to John uttering the words that his brother had waited a lifetime to hear. 

“It shouldn’t have taken what happened,” Sam says eventually. “But I’m glad he told you.” 

He looks at Dean, who nods and says, “Next song?” 

OoOoO

Dean’s ankle eventually improves, liberating him to move about on crutches. For a brief moment Sam’s worried that Dean will think they need to get back out there now that he’s more mobile but to his surprise, Dean appears quite happy to stay around the bunker doing, well, _nothing_.

They watch more TV and play more Guitar Hero. They’re both now playing on ‘Expert’ and _finally_ Dean is edging Sam out in some of the songs – happily for Dean they’re mostly classic rock, but he never misses the opportunity to crow when he beats Sam in any of the ones he describes as _that shitty music you like, Christ only knows why._

Their playful bickering then leads to a prank war, which, after a few days, they mutually call time on when Sam has to spend four hours removing the cress growing up through his laptop keyboard and Dean almost re-dislocates his ankle when he discovers Sam’s head in a jar in their refrigerator – _‘Not fuckin’ funny, Sammy I nearly had a goddamned heart attack.’_

Sam keeps an eye on what’s happening outside the bunker but the reality is that things have gone quiet on the angel front and the regular run-of-the-mill crap they deal with the rest of the time is being taken care of by other hunters. 

For that, Sam feels not a moment’s guilt. 

They stop making wagers on Guitar Hero, but they don’t stop talking. They share old hurts and lay ghosts to rest without a grain of salt in sight. It’s a good feeling. 

Another week passes and they return to the hospital so that Dean can get his cast removed. Sam drives them there in silence, painfully aware that this doesn’t feel as awesome as he’d assumed it would all those weeks ago. 

Dean, for his part, is also quiet. Sam pulls the car into a parking space and turns off the engine. They both sit for a moment, each waiting for the other to say or do something. Dean breaks first. 

“We should go.” Sam wonders if he’s imagining it, but Dean almost sounds reluctant. 

“Yeah,” Sam replies, pulling the keys from the ignition. “Yeah we should.” 

He’s reaching for the door handle when Dean says, “Sam?” 

“What is it, Dean?” 

His brother’s looking at him now, a fond smile growing on his face. 

“You’re pretty good at Guitar Hero, Sam. I just, you know, figured I should tell you.” 

Sam nods and smiles because Dean’s comment says everything that the words don’t: _Thanks for putting up with me, thanks for looking after me, thanks for being my brother, I love you._

This is high emotion Winchester-style so he responds in kind. 

“You’re not too bad at it yourself, Big Brother.” 

**End**


End file.
